


【 nemophila 】

by ToasTea



Series: 【 trails of fire 】 [4]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Diabetus - Freeform, F/M, carbs be damned, more flowers means MORE CHEESE, oh look more flowers, you know what that means
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:15:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24017317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToasTea/pseuds/ToasTea
Summary: As time moves forward, the weight of his absence eventually becomes an anchor she can no longer raise on her own.
Relationships: Jorah Mormont/Daenerys Targaryen
Series: 【 trails of fire 】 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1500467
Comments: 24
Kudos: 42





	【 nemophila 】

**Author's Note:**

> Greetings, beautiful Jorleesi peepsters. I hope you’re all doing everything in your power to keep the cabin fever at bay in these loving and trying times. 2020 tho. Fantastique, amirite? 
> 
> Finally got some motivation to sit my cheeks down and write for these precious babs. Came right from an old and random article I came across about an entire field of blue flowers (nemophila) blooming in Japan. This is the most recent addition to the timeline in my “trails of fire” series. Like the rest of the others, it can be read as a standalone. 
> 
> No beers or coffee were harmed in the making of this story. I swear on my $1 bill. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

I

The desert is merciful tonight as the stone windows usher in a crisp breeze and tempers the heat trapped between the walls. It should be a welcoming feeling. A refresher of sorts after a long day of diplomatic duties beneath the sweltering sun and a passionate interlude with the tyroshi warrior.

She sits at one of the tables near the window. The fires have been put out in an attempt to enhance the evening climate. The moon is the only light that filters through the blackness of the pyramid, yet the chill that reaches her barely sends a tingle down her skin. 

Daenerys isn’t sure whether it’s the lukewarm wine she swirls around in her cup or the indifference in her chest as she gazes at Daario’s dozing form through the darkness. 

All she knows is that she is suffocating in this spacious dwelling. Emotions left unattended to since she banished him have slowly worked its hands around her chest, constricting until she could ignore them no more. 

Indifference blisters into frustration the longer her eyes remain fixated on him. His naked and tangled form is a mess between the furs, his leg and arm are practically touching the floor and his snore is the only thing breaking the silence. She knows his roguish allure once captured her affections for a time. Here, he is the only man residing in her chambers with her, the only target who so happens to be on the path the storm raging within her is gravitating towards.

Here, he looks more like a toy tossed aside by a child turning in for the night, waiting to be picked up and played with again tomorrow. 

The cold that teases her sweat-slicked skin is a minute provocation that she willingly falls for. Daenerys stands, finishing the last of her wine. It’s bitter and lukewarm texture does nothing but burn the unburnt as it travels to the pit of her stomach. She’s careful to suppress her feelings just enough so that she doesn’t put her goblet down too aggressively and rouse the manchild. 

Pushing the ebony door open to the balcony, she faces the full brunt of the night. The sudden rush of air offers her skin what it had been parched of inside the pyramid. If only for a few beats, she feels lighter, _free,_ the raging fire within her settles.

But the wind settles just as quickly when she reaches the edge, and the cool stone where she rests her forearms quickly sobers her. Free from the confines of the pyramid, her mind begins drifting too eagerly, to the source of her grief and anguish. 

Daenerys should hate him, as she should with anyone who dares betray her. 

But she knows she could never truly resent him, or at least not for long. Like a flame that can last as long as it is fed, but the initial burst of heat when first brought to life can never be relived. 

It’s been weeks since he left the city. Time has done nothing but move forward and extinguished the resentment that fanned the flame in her heart when it was at its weakest. Her heart can spare no more pieces to feed a fire she knows would only burn her further. 

Because behind the charred pieces of her heart are fragments of his presence. His strong form standing steadfast beside her, his wisdom, his knowledge. Even pieces she knew she shouldn’t hold on to but can’t rid of because it’s already sewn itself to her. The feel of his large and weathered hands around her smaller ones, the ‘Khaleesi’ he breathed passed his lips whenever he addressed her, the small and bashful smile that would slip when she would gently tease him. 

She misses him. She misses all of him, even the parts that betrayed her and the parts that she has yet to discover—never _will_ discover.

Only when the world sleeps does she allow the truth to swallow her whole. 

Only then does she allow herself to weep from the burns that have been inflicted upon her. 

Every tear that falls is salt to the wounds.

She cries under the clear night sky and pale moon with only occasional wisps of wind whispering to her as her company, reminding her of what could have been, what will be as time pushes her forward without him by her side.

II

He last was seen passing through the Summer Sea.

That was months ago, the last of what Varys’ little birds could offer. 

Daenerys would have them scour the entire earth if she could, but even the spider’s web wasn’t as wide as the wealth of knowledge hidden inside the spider himself.

A wealth of knowledge that was rich in everything but a cure for Greyscale apparently.

Even here on Dragonstone, where the magic of her people runs through sand and stone and enhances the fire that courses through her, she could do nothing.

Her children are the only ones who could comfort her at this hour. They sense the pain of his absence within their mother. 

They trill gently when she approaches the cliffside, their songs are the only things that could fill the void in her heart, if only temporarily. 

Her visits are frequent now. They’ve grown familiar with this pattern. 

It starts with a small fire and then Drogon curls protectively around her as she basks in the comfort of his rough scales and ashy scent. Viserion and Rhaegal are close but maintain their space because of Drogon, but she understands their intentions as well as any mother would.

She opens a little journal given to her by Missandei soon afterward and writes. She writes until every word from her heart is scribbled on the worn paper. She writes until the pull of sleep grows too strong for her to fight against. She writes as her child’s large and protective form shields her from the gusty winds, from the cold that threatens to grip her chest. 

Each night, she writes until she can write no more for different reasons.

Each night, her children protect her from the watchful eyes of the world as she scrawls words that no other person is privileged to read except _him_. Words left unspoken, conversations to be had, things that could have been, affections left unaddressed.

In the protective bowl created by her children, she is transported to another world where he is huddled right beside her with his arm curled around her waist. They exchange stories. 

How he found his cure. What he had faced. Who he met on his journey.

How far she had come. The enemies and obstacles she overcame. Her new allies.

When she weeps or is blighted by doubts, he is there to purge her from them and comfort her. His deft fingers brushing away tears and his scent she wishes to know would blend pleasantly with the cinders of her child curled around them.

On this particular night, a strong gust of wind had managed to skitter past Drogon and rattle the pages she had just barely finished. She feels a growl rumble across his body but she shushes him gently with a maternal Valyrian phrase. Perhaps it is the gods way of saying enough is enough and that she must rest if she wishes to continue this tomorrow night.

She sets her journal down on the grass and ushers Drogon’s snout towards her hand. He bends towards her, fingers tracing the power of her house sigil imbued in his leathery and warm scales, a huff from his nostrils tickles her cheeks and tosses her locks about. 

_I love you._

“He is strong,” she whispers. 

_I’ll always love you._

She tries to muffle the tremble for what follows as her amethyst gaze falls on the brilliant red and amber of his eyes. “He will come back. He always does, my child.” 

She must be strong. Strong for herself. Strong so that when he returns, she could show him the strength she had gained and proudly continue being his.

But there is no hiding the doubt behind the strength of her words from a dragon. Their natural instincts are wonders of the world themselves. He doesn’t feast on the desperate hope she clings to as he would with the many victims he has claimed though. 

Instead, he trills a pleasant song for his mother as he closes his eyes at her motherly strokes. A song accompanied by the chimes of his two brothers. The wind that joins them rushes past the beat of their cries and ruffles the pages of her journal, turning them to reveal an endless string of entries that always began with—

_Jorah,_

III

She’s being selfish.

She has not given him permission to leave.

To hell with his oath. 

To hell with everything he swore to do for her.

To hell with the gods trying to take her away from him.

She needs him by her side when she takes the seven kingdoms. 

She needs him by her side in order to teach her the ways of the sword. So that she may protect him better than she did tonight.

She needs him by her side so that she may rebuild what was lost between them and make it stronger than it once was.

She wants him by her side so that he may take her to see Bear Island like she had made him promise hours before the battle. 

He cannot die.

She doesn’t want to see him walk away from her ever again.

She’s being petulant, but she doesn’t care. 

She is fire made flesh, heart forged of Valyrian steel with only one man privileged enough to wield it.

He is a part of her as much as she is a part of him.

He will not die so as long as there is still breath in her. 

Her tears have dried for the evening, but her heart still aches painfully for the man lying before her, swathed in bandages for shielding her from blades meant for her, teetering between life and death. 

She allows her hand to trail its way carefully up his chest, careful not to upset his wounds, and places it above his heart. The slow thrum of life beneath his skin empowers the desperate hope she’s all too familiar with. When she leans down to his ear, his gold-grey whiskers send a familiar tingle across her skin, a feeling she remembers just before she stepped into the great pyre. 

“You will come back to me, Jorah Mormont,” she says. “Your queen commands it.”

Fear still clings to her words, but she does not falter. She cannot when he needs her the most. 

Her whisper rings loudly across the silence resting in her chambers, just enough so that the doubts howling inside her head are smothered into nothing more than the occasional snap of embers from the hearth.

IV

She is familiar with the view from the balcony, but there is a particular beauty this time underneath the clear evening skies of King’s Landing.

The small lights strewn across the districts still flicker with life as many others have omitted their curfew in favor of their social agenda. 

The wind is gentle this time and she hears only its light whisk as it plays with her hair and softly strokes the apples of her cheeks. 

Today had been a long day of political matters as it had always been since she claimed her rightful place. Council meetings just past dawn, alliances and trade routes secured by noon, an audience with the people until dusk. 

The tedious nature of her role is nothing new to her, only with a bigger workload. But while her mind is occupied by diplomacy, it immediately strays to her Lord Commander as soon as it is freed from its political shackles. 

She doesn’t have time to stray for long as she hears familiar footsteps approaching their chamber doors. It slides open with a wooden groan before it clicks shut. There are no words exchanged between them and she doesn’t turn around immediately. It’s a ritual they’ve fallen into naturally overtime. She’s memorized his movements by sound now, the shuffling and unbuckling of his armor brushing against the fabric, the clink of metal meeting stone as he places it on the floor.

It does no favors for the heat pooling in her belly, and she does nothing to mute the smile formed from the images her mind feasted on. 

She hears him release a heavy breath, possibly from the weight of today’s work. His footsteps follow after, growing closer and closer until he is behind her. Her smile only widens when his arms snake around her waist and tugs her closer so that she can feel the broad expanse of his chest. She gladly arches her neck to give him more room when he begins to gently nibble there.

A pleasant hum rings across his strong form, his breath tickles her cheeks as she giggles and turns in his arms. 

Her arms find residence around his neck, her fingers playing with her favorite ginger curls, but instead of pulling for a kiss as she normally did, a little blue flower tied to his tunic stops her. 

“Oh?” She reaches down to play with its soft petals. “A gift from a fan of yours?”

The words come out a bit more possessive than she would like. There is no reason for Daenerys to be jealous and she is fully aware of his reputation among the female citizens.

Jorah Mormont is a one in a million man, just as she is the princess who was promised. There is no other man as loyal and devoted as he, yet she cannot help the small fire that ignites in her when someone even attempts to sway her bear’s attention. 

He is perceptive as he always has been and picks up on her minute aggravation easily when he chuckles, the sound sending pleasant tingles across her skin and quickly made her forget about thoughts from before. 

“A very _little_ fan, Khaleesi,” he says, eyes watching her fingers mingle with the petals. “It was a gift after I saved her father from a rather irritable customer.”

All adverse thoughts were purged in an instant. 

When she looks up at him, she sees only the man he had just indirectly described. Brave, strong, a man of the people, the knight nearly everyone adored. 

The man _she_ adored no other can behind closed doors.

“You offered to pay her, didn’t you?” she teased.

“I _did_ offer but she insisted...and then threatened to tell the queen if I kept persisting.”

A brow arched mischievously. She liked this little one already. “Really? What’s her name?”

“Bella.”

“I’d like to visit little Bella one day.”

She picks the flower from his pocket and twirls it in her hand curiously while examining it.

“Victory and success,” he says, his thumb absentmindedly running circles on her waist.

Her eyes lift to meet him again and just as many nights before, she is held by the quiet strength behind his baby blue hues.

“She said it symbolizes victory and success.”

The warmth that floods her chest is a feeling she will never grow tired of around him, but its rising tide causes old memories to resurface. She remembers painfully the many times she has endured his absence. 

Enduring is not an uncommon foe to him. His battles with it are etched in his handsome face, the scars on his body, his past, his heart. Just as her own are scribbled across the pages in that journal she still kept tucked away, filled with words she never knew he would ever hear until now. 

When she looks back, she remembers it fondly despite the pain and the fear that remains whenever he leaves for patrol.

But Jorah Mormont has won every single time for she is standing here with him in his protective embrace. 

Whether it be his Bear Island stubbornness, the magic behind the flames, the wheel she has broken, or just simply the stubbornness of two fools in love, one definitive answer is right here in her hands.

The pillager of their fears, a tangible reminder of what they are capable of and what they will always accomplish as long as they were still faithful to the string of desperate hope that held them together when they were apart. They have seen each other at their bleakest hours and faced death in order to survive in more ways than one.

All of it, their success, the losses that created their victories, their everything materialized in the form of this flower, blessed with a color that neither of them could forget.

She smiles fondly at him and eyes glassy before planting a kiss on his lips.

Her hand slides down his arm before she interlocks their fingers together and leads him back into the room. She’ll definitely have to plan a visit to Bella if she wishes to buy more.

“Come.” She leads him to the washbasin after plopping the little flower into a suitable vase by their nightstand. Her mind wanders to the little secret she’s kept away for too long in the chest beneath the bed. “There’s something I wish to share with you, but you need a bath first, my bear.”

The confusing look that furrows his brows only makes her adore him even more, but it’s quickly smothered by a smirk when her fingers begin undoing the ties at his shirt.

**Author's Note:**

> According to the Gods of Google:
> 
> Nemo = ~~the clown fish from finding nemo~~ wooded pasture/glade (bear islandish)  
> Phileo = to love (*cough*jorleesi*cough)  
> Symbolizes victory / success.
> 
> Species in this genus have names that can be translated to “baby blue eyes.” HOO BOY I wonder who has blue eyes HMMMM. We may never know unless we can get to the center of that tootsie pop.
> 
> That’s another slice of cheese from yours truly. Hopefully it was good enough for your toast. All my love to you and this amazing fandom.


End file.
